Your Guardian Angel

One-shot

I’m watching your face, waiting for something to give, searching (half-hoping) to find some sign that you’re lying. At least if I know you’re lying then falling won’t hurt as much since I’ll see the ground coming.

Right?

He offers you a big fat joint and I look anywhere but at you, not realizing I’m holding my breath. Inside my heart hurts as my head screams for me to do something (just tell those guys to fuck off). I’m not sure what to make of it; I have no right to protect you from yourself or anyone else for that matter. You still call me Baby but all it serves is to remind me of what I’ve let go.

Maybe you feel my pain or maybe you’re just not in the mood to smoke, but you turn them down, saying you’ve quit (though you haven’t, I know you haven’t). As you rejoin our crew, our eyes meet and I hate my heart for the way it jumps at the way you look at me.

I know you turned them down for me and I wish I could believe it’s because you(‘re in) love (with) me.

Down at the bonfire your hand keeps finding mine but the second I squeeze back you shy away. You act so tough and imperturbable but one squeeze too hard and you’re scared of turning to putty (or is it that you’re afraid of me). I can’t help but laugh at the irony.

You’re talking too loud again and telling stories that make you out to be the hero. Your eyes search the audience. I don’t think anyone but I am aware of your desperation; it’s not just that you love it but that you need to be the center of attention (lest you be forgotten). And as your gaze sweeps over me, I finally have to look somewhere (anywhere) else (lest you should notice me or how I’ve been staring so intently).

At some point you head up to where the kegs are kept to refill your beer. At first I just sit tight and contemplate the impending forest fire in front of me. A sudden craving for water overcomes me and even though I step lightly and am trying to be sneaky, somehow it’s your eyes I find watching (and I don’t think you realize that you’ve been gawking for some time now). Even as I look at you, you don’t avert your gaze.

What should I make of that?

Only to stomp out that thought the instant it occurs, refusing to hope for anything more than what’s already there. I can be happy just being your friend—

(I don’t think I could bear having you as anything less but I’ll be damned to let you find out).

You know exactly what I’m after as I move close and ask you if there’s any sign of some bottled water (knowing full-well that it’s you I’m thirsty for). Some trashed(/trashy) girl hits on me and I know the reason you’re laughing is because of my obvious anxiety being in this close proximity with so many people I don’t know (you used to make fun of my “they’re-all-out-to-get-me” mentality).

I hate it when strangers touch me and her arm is around my waist and I’m fully aware of the cigarette in the hand I can’t see probably about to burn a hole in your fake leather jacket I’m wearing, but all you’re doing is smiling. I hate the way she giggles mindlessly (the way the sound of it slaps a stereotype on the face of my gender).

What I hate most is the cigarette you’re bringing to your curved lips and the way you meet my eyes with a shrug that dares me to reject you.

Extracting myself from the situation, I abandon you and my thirst, returning to the fire where the rest of our crew is gathered.

And suddenly you’re there beside me with a bottle of passionfruit-flavored vitamin water, grinning in that way you know breaks my heart. My eyes dart away. You take a seat on the arm of the lawn chair I’m occupying; you don’t know how fast the butterflies in my stomach are flying or how bad I want to shove you off because that’s how we flirted back in junior high (the way you still flirt six years later).

Your shoulder touches mine. I hate that the contact is all I can think of.

The hostess of the party comes down in a red devil costume that’s really nothing more than a red bikini swimsuit top and red boyshort underwear and a pair of strappy black high heels. It’s all I can do not to stab her when your gaze rapes her cleavage, all too aware that my breasts will never be that full or perky or my ass that perfectly round and firm. Every guy is eyeing her like starving wolves stalk a secluded deer, yourself included.

I take comfort in that fact that it’s twenty degrees Fahrenheit out and damp; with a prayer and a bit of religious persuasion she’ll get frostbite.

One minute you’re standing next to her and the next you’re directly behind me. I feel your arms around my shoulders, holding me close (or are you holding me back because you know I’m one shout from punching her and the five-foot-nothing flabby bitch doesn’t stand a chance compared to my five-foot-eleven athletic build).

“I disagree,” you say when the loud-mouthed slut finally leaves and some guy in a red hat says that all girlfriends are crazy.

And you squeeze my shoulders, hugging me close as your face nuzzles the side of my neck.

I could kill you for making me want you this bad (and making me believe that maybe there still could be something to hope for at all).

Eventually the cops show up because of the red devil hostess and her psycho ex, and probably because half the party consists of methadone addicts. Our crew leaves (though I haven’t been drinking I’m the only minor) and you’re in the front seat with sober John driving. I’m behind you and Scotty is beside me. He whips out a cigarette and you turn in your seat, asking him to wait. Before you turn forward again I catch the way you glance my way (and I know you want me to know that you did that for me).

Scotty gets dropped off and John drives us back to your house. The mood is subdued, the volume on the stereo is turned way down. At your house, I hug John goodbye and you two clasp hands in a brotherly fashion. He leaves and we head on in.

Your sea glass eyes are hungry as they track me to your bedroom. I’m ready to get out of this costume.

I strip off my shirt (which is actually yours) and your hand on my bare back startles me. I turn and find my lips on your lips and my heart beating too fast in my chest.

Just as we’re about to head to the shower to finish stripping and wash that face paint off you, your phone rings.

It’s Stripper Slut Barbie—I mean, it’s your new girlfriend, Jesse.

As you turn away, I finish changing out of your clothes and into mine. Tonight it isn’t going to happen (I never cheated on you despite your suspicions and I’ll be damned if I get blamed for your infidelity (again)).

I leave your room and curl up on the couch with the fleece blanket I bought you last year for Christmas (it smells like sex and ends up on the floor while I end up shivering).

Floorboards creak as you come to check on me. I pretend to be asleep (but only because if I open my eyes you’ll see the tears).

You cover me with a blanket from your mom’s room that smells like she bathed in booze. But at least it doesn’t smell like her.

The shower starts and as I drift off I’m aware of the pain in my chest that should send me into cardiac arrest; except that’s just wishful thinking.

“I love you,” you whispered to the dark living room. Then you were gone, washing off the evidence of tonight (scrubbing away the remnants of my touch).

“I love you, too,” I replied.

Only I was too late to save myself from the heartache.